


Jab and Cross

by Trashy_Cannot



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Character Study, Gen, Kinda, i think
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-06
Updated: 2019-01-06
Packaged: 2019-10-05 18:50:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,050
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17330483
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Trashy_Cannot/pseuds/Trashy_Cannot
Summary: Punching is a stress-reliever. But sometimes there is an art to it. Something Beau still needs to learn.





	Jab and Cross

**Author's Note:**

> Is this the most impressive thing I've written? Nope! But I hope it's enjoyable all the same.

  The dull thuds of contact sounded like an erratic heartbeat, resonating throughout the subterranean grounds.

  When her wraps had worn through, her knuckles soon followed, and blood streaked across the rough texture of the sandbag. Jabs and crosses melted into haymakers, her rage growing hotter and hotter with each punch.

  She took in a deep breath before lodging her right hand into the bag, four dots of blood left behind.

  Reflection wasn’t Beau’s forte, but whenever the rest of her body wracked with pain, she had her mind on something she suppressed.

  She found a twisted peace in it.

  Sure, she didn’t kiss the ground like Nott did when the group finally landed back onto Wildemount’s dirt and sand, but her mind was still preoccupied with Uk’Otoa and the recent attack in Felderwin. It was only a matter of time until things boiled over within the kingdom, and Fjord’s patron proved that she was _much less_ than capable to deal with it.

  Especially not when all she had were her fists.

  Fists that bled whenever her wraps were undone, a common occurrence.

  She couldn’t help but let out hushed insults whenever raw skin skidded across the threads, drawing more and more blood with each hit. Sweat beaded around her temples, soaking through her ruined wraps, and dripped onto the ground in asynchronous patterns, dark spots welling onto the dirt.

  Anxiety flushed through her thoughts. With the ever-increasing tensions at the borders, Dairon could very well be dead. That meant a whole plethora of changes in Beau’s association with the Cobalt Soul she wasn’t prepared to deal with. Hell, the destruction of Kamordah could soon follow.

  Beau grit her teeth, steadying her hands and tried to pull back from her haymakers, imagining the sack as a person’s body and various points she could exploit. As much as she would deny it, Dairon taught her a newfound sense of control, still allowing her to be impulsive when she wanted to be.

  She drew another deep breath.

  A knuckle hit an imaginary lateral line of a target’s sternum, and a rush of expelled air from her lips followed.

  Shoulder seams were struck, and another small rush of air fled her lips.

  Beau furrowed her brows, thrusting two knuckles into its trachea. The bony skin dragged on the points, dark crimson left behind. That time a nearly silent “fuck” entered the air when her last segment of breath left her lungs.

  “Perhaps you should rewrap your hands, Beauregard. You’re getting blood all over our equipment. It’s quite unsanitary of you.”

  “Fuck off, Tubo.” Beau stilled herself, pulling away from the bag. “Sorry.”

  The Halfling waved her off, walking up to his temporary pupil, eyeing her up and down. His gaze narrowed, and a small glint of understanding found its way to his expression.

  “Punch me.” he offered, patting his cheek, smiling as he pulled a book from behind him and rested it onto his head.

  Beau raised a brow but planted her feet into the packed sand, sending a jab his way. He sidestepped and, with restraint, backhanded her, his knuckles lining up with her spine. Beau grunted and spun around, facing him once more and attempting to plow through the side of his knee with her shin. In a flash, Tubo shifted and jumped, tapping a thick knuckle of his against her temple before landing, hands behind his back.

  “I have something else to teach you.” he gleaned the flicker of anger in Beau’s eyes. “I apologize that your usual mentor is still far off in Xhorhas, but there are things we cannot change.”

  Beau gritted her teeth and kept her eyes on him, sitting on the ground.

  “Do you know why I did that?” Tubo posed, presenting Beau with new wraps.

  “Did what, be an asshole by fuckin’ with me?” Beau began looping the cloth through her fingers. “’Cause I sure as hell don’t.”

  Tubo sighed, raised a brow and pointed at the spots on the sandbag she had struck, indicated with splotches of drying blood.

  “There are things we cannot change. Weaknesses,” he pressed into a spot. “cannot be changed. At least, not all of the time. However, we always teach you to exploit them, because not every fight you find yourself in will be an even playing field.”

  Eyes flicked to the cloth, now a shade of red.

  “I’d imagine that in your escapades with your friends, you are often not at an advantage.”

  Beau rolled her eyes at his observation.

  “So…you want me to find holes in your attacks whenever you miss? Hit you whenever that happens?” she grumbled, pulling the cloth tight around her forearms.

  A nod came from her mentor.

  “You may be able to focus on a point in which to paralyze, or extract some truth, but I want you to control yourself first. Losing yourself in an unequal fight will lead you to lose altogether. I’ve noticed you can still yourself, but you must keep that stillness the entire time.”

 He placed the book onto her head.

  “My dad used to make me do this, is that really necessary?” she mumbled, centering it begrudgingly when Tubo narrowed his eyes at her.

 Tubo began showing her the basics of feinting an opening, dodging, then striking at an opportune moment, always stopping short from hurting her.

  Beau failed often, her mind still held back by the doubt of who she is: a human with fists.

  If it wasn’t her punch that failed, it was the control over the rest of her body, marked by the dull thud of the book falling. Yet, once in what felt like a blue moon, she was able to drive a fist into Tubo’s shoulder, or sternum.

  Tubo often rocked back from her successful strikes, smiling.

  “Again, Beauregard.”

  Beau felt a spark of confidence in the back of her mind, her tired form still able to pull of a cocky smirk at the end of their session that day. While she had greatly improved from her initial sparring, she still had a long way to go until a missed strike of a foe resulted in their head getting bashed in.

  Oddly enough, she was okay with it, and the stress from that day melted as she stumbled into her room, exhausted.

 

**Author's Note:**

> To put where this came from into perspective, something that struck me from Beau's playlist was the mild inferiority she felt compared to the rest of the Nein because she just had her fists and bo staff. I was also feeling super stressed from life and this was sort of a vent one-shot. Regardless, I really think that Beau would deal with her problems by punching shit, and she would need control over that, as seen from more controlled targets that were taught to her by Dairon, and (eventually since it's a level 11 ability), the prenatural counter by Tubo. Anyway, I hope you enjoy this, give me feedback (especially on this one since it has not been super proofread), and leave a kudos if you'd like!


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